We are conceding to the totems,
the plaque endowed by grief,
and shadowed by a myrtle tree, and we
commerce with variety
beneath a canopy
of dread awakenings.
How remote are strangers
in their clotted Babylon,
how polyglot their tongues:
where nothing is more possible
than grief.
We were one voice, however,
and the diffidence a sophistry:
a thing we had once held the moment,
made it marvel, drowned the finite skins
of past pollution.
We were a strange, unclinging honor,
amoral, God constructed bliss.
We were the leap,
the precipice.
© 2010 Charlotte Merrill Jensen
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